A hip mother in low rise jeans walking the gauntlet past young men with broadband web access at home. Catcalls. I think we lost, she thinks.

The subway had been crowded and he suffered from the lingering effects of enforced intimacy. Work was a disaster. I may be in love, he said.

Their eyes meet. This is painful, he says. It’s the eye liner, she replies. She hates public transportation. But not if they end up married.

There’s no room, he says. Just don’t touch the face, is the reply. Then there is an epic silence. And resignation. And no more tattoos. Ever